


saut dans le vide, my lover

by enjolrasenthusiast



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - French Nobility, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Pining, noble enjolras, royal grantaire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 21:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11021772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjolrasenthusiast/pseuds/enjolrasenthusiast
Summary: "Grantaire," he said, dipping into a mock-bow. "Bastard prince of France, at your service."-or, enjolras is a nobleman who hates the crown, grantaire is a bastard prince who hates his brother, and sometimes revolution is subtle.





	saut dans le vide, my lover

**Author's Note:**

> its here! sorry for taking so long to put this out, college and finals kind of took over my life for a little bit. i'm on break now though, and hopefully i'll be able to update this somewhat regularly! huge thanks to [rin](http://rintaire.tumblr.com) for kicking my butt into gear and for indulging my love for tv period dramas. anyway, enjoy this - more to come!
> 
> also, i may have a small surprise coming out as well - keep an eye on my account for another fic i'm working on simultaneously!

Enjolras stared past the heavy black drapes as the French countryside dragged by. He was far from Paris now, several hours’ ride past, judging by the position of the sun. It beat down onto the dry ground underneath the carriage’s wheels, roasting the metal rivets lining the carriage window so that Enjolras could hardly draw aside the curtain for fear of scalding his arm should it touch one. Inside, the air was stifling, and Enjolras had already abandoned his cravat and coat for respite from the summer heat.

_ Versailles. _

Enjolras had been brought up on tales of the gilded palace - the hall of mirrors, where his mother had played in the days of her childhood, the vast, wooded grounds where his father had been taught to hunt. Enjolras had never known such beauty - he had grown up in Paris, amid bustling streets and the slop of the city. Versailles seemed to him like an opium dream, like a vision calling to him from miles away, soft fingers curling around his limbs through the walls of the carriage and pulling him to the countryside. The hairs on his arms raised, chills spreading over his skin despite the sticky heat of midsummer. Further undoing the laces of his tunic, he let his head fall back against the heavy velvet upholstery, turning to the side to stare out the thin slit between the carriage curtains at the trees passing by. A single golden curl fell across his left eyes; he blew it back with a huff. The carriage hit a dip in the dirt road, one wheel falling into a pit left after the spring rains, and the curl fell back into Enjolras’ line of sight.

A fine picture of a nobleman he would make, drawing up to the palace half-dressed.  _ Represent us well, _ his mother had told him. Already he was crossing her, and not even halfway to Versailles yet. He could only hope the Prince was as tolerable as his parents made him out to be - or better yet, the Prince was not there to receive him at all. He was not his father, he could do with being slighted, and the privacy of a cool bath would not go amiss after hours on the road. Leaning forward, he tapped a knuckle against the front of the carriage, asking the driver if they were far enough from the city to pin the curtains back yet.

With a shout in the affirmative, Enjolras braced for the threat of the scorching metal rivets, drew the curtains back, and breathed in lungfuls of clear - if hot and muggy - air. With hours yet on the road ahead of him, he called again to the driver to wake him within an hour of Versailles, and leaned his head back for a much-needed nap.

 

He woke much later to the sound of running water and a knock on the carriage door. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he shook his head and sat up straight. The carriage was at a halt, and the driver outside his window.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but we’ll be nearing Versailles in the hour and I was wonderin’ if His Lordship might like to bathe before we reach the court?”

Enjolras sighed, waving off the driver’s outstretched hand. “Just Enjolras to you, I’m no lord yet.” Still, he stepped down from the carriage and, with a thanks in the driver’s direction, staggered off towards the sound of running water.

The stream was clear and cool, rushing away between the trees gathered along the bank. Enjolras stripped to his undershirt and breeches, leaving the rest of his clothes bundled atop a rock. Throwing a glance over his shoulder to ensure no one had followed him to the bank, he stepped closer to the stream and sank into the water. It was shockingly cold, a welcome reprieve from the summer heat barely kept at bay under the shade of the trees.

There was silence, blissful silence that Enjolras had not enjoyed in years. Paris was loud, wild and filled with rich and poor alike. His mother and father were constantly at his heels, belittling his efforts to help the less fortunate in the streets and pressing him to take a wife - and a noble wife, no less. His trip to Versailles was little comfort; his mother had sent word ahead to several other nobles, telling them to ready their daughters and nieces and sisters for courtship. The very thought made Enjolras sick.

Here though, in the shade of the trees, with his feet and ankles submerged in cold river water and nothing but birdsong for company, Enjolras felt at peace. He rolled his breeches to mid-thigh and sank further into the water, reaching forward to take a handful and splash it across his face. In the distance, he could hear voices - likely his driver soothing the horses, or complaining that Enjolras was taking too long. Let him complain, Enjolras thought, he was comfortable enough on his own here. Let the driver go to Versailles himself if he wanted to, Enjolras rather fancied the idea of a few miles’ walk under the shade of the trees. He sank even further into the stream, until his breeches and the hem of his undershirt were wet with river water, and closed his eyes.

 

Enjolras didn't remember falling asleep, but he was woken abruptly by the sound of a spooked deer crashing through the underbrush and into the river, kicking up a spray of water that soaked Enjolras even further, before disappearing away into the trees. It was followed closely by a horse that, upon further inspection, was mounted by a slumped man in hunting gear. Visions of woodland massacres of nobles and unsuspecting maidens flooded Enjolras’ head, and he scrambled backwards. His knife lay some feet away, along with his clothes, but the hunter was still staring off into the distance after the deer. Enjolras inched away from him, left hand feeling the ground behind him for cold metal, silently praying he managed to reach the knife before he was noticed.

As if the man had heard Enjolras’ thoughts, he turned, and in an instant all ideas of murder and danger fled. No killer Enjolras had ever heard of could have such  _ beautiful  _ eyes. Striking brilliant blue met his own for several silent seconds, blinking in confusion. The hunter was sitting straighter now, no longer slumped over his horse but upright and stiff with his eyes wide. There was a dusting of stubble along his chin and cheeks, and he wore an odd assortment of worn leather hunting gear and finely crafted underclothes. Suddenly aware of his own state of undress, Enjolras brought his knees to his chest, though it did little good.

“It seems my deer has already fallen, and become an angel in my absence,” the man chuckled good-naturedly, swinging a leg over his horse and dismounting. “Or a god, perhaps! I’ve heard the pagans worship in these woods; are you Apollo, then?”

“No more than you,” Enjolras countered. Then, realizing he might have betrayed an attraction rather than disdain, he continued, “interrupting a man bathing. What if I had been a lady?”

“A man bathing, interrupting my hunt! A lady would never be so inconsiderate.” The words were harsh, but the man laughed, throwing his head back and hiding his brilliant eyes from view. He approached Enjolras slowly, and a fraction of Enjolras’ wits returned. He reached again for the knife.

“Step no closer, I do not trust such a happy man after the loss of a hunt.” Finally, Enjolras’ fingers found the leather casing of his knife, and pulled it in front of him, still sheathed, as a mock shield. The hunter stepped back again, raising his hands in defense.

“Apologies, but it is not every day a man sees such beauty.” Enjolras watched his eyes shift from the knife to Enjolras’ face, then to the pile of clothes, where his mouth fell open ever so slightly and his eyes widened in surprise. He looked back at Enjolras with a smile. “Although, if you are headed to the castle, I may set eyes on that beauty again.”

“What? Do you work at court?”

“Something along those lines, I’d say.”

Enjolras blinked, and the hunter swiftly mounted his horse again with a laugh. He tipped his head to Enjolras, and before he rode off, Enjolras caught the “Safe travels, Apollo,” thrown over his shoulder.

Enjolras sat there in quiet shock for several minutes, with the knife still held outstretched in his hand; then, his wits gathered and his clothes only slightly damp, he redressed and all but ran back to his driver.

He was eager to reach Versailles.

-

The palace was vast, immense and gilded. Enjolras felt quite small in front of it - although that was likely the goal, he thought. He allowed himself a quiet minute of awe as the driver unloaded his trunks from the carriage, before turning his gaze down from the gleaming architecture and towards the welcoming party on the path before him. Several lords and ladies stood, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the young noble from the dirty streets of Paris, gauging his wealth with hungry eyes. None of them were recognizable to Enjolras. Ahead of them was a woman -  _ the king’s mistress _ , his brain supplied. She was beautiful, he supposed, in a capricious, airheaded way that didn’t appeal to him in the slightest. She toyed at the rope in her hands, looped around the neck of an enormous, bored-looking hound that sat at her feet. At her side was the king, at his other side, the queen.

Enjolras felt naked in front of the dozens of pairs of eyes trained on him. He was being judged, he knew it; nothing in Paris had prepared him for this. In Paris, he was either exalted or ignored in favor of his father and mother, in Paris he could do as he pleased with little repercussion, but here - here, his every move was watched like a hawk and he had the sinking feeling that he would need to prove himself worthy to these vultures before anything of importance could be done.

As he scanned the crowd, it parted, and through strode a figure cloaked in fine silks - a young man. His hair fell in waves around his face, which was quite handsome, if severe. He walked with a straightness of the spine, an elegance that testified to his position far more than fine robes could. Enjolras was both drawn to him and left with a pit in his stomach that warned him to be wary of this handsome man - he was of the feeling that more lurked beneath the beautiful exterior than most knew.

Then, with the grace of one brought up amidst the falsities and grandiose gestures of court life, he stood before Enjolras, bowed, and took his hand to kiss it gently.

“ _ Philippe, _ ” hissed the queen, “shouldn’t you be  _ inside _ ?”

Philippe whirled on her, throwing his arms wide and embracing her. “But  _ Mother, _ ” he whined, “I’m so  _ bored _ .”

“ _ Inside.” _

Philippe huffed, his posture faltering slightly and his gaze flickering back to Enjolras. Under those piercing grey eyes, Enjolras felt inexplicably inferior, powerless as the deer that had crossed his path in the woods earlier. His thoughts returned to the hunter, dark curls and a wicked grin that had left him so much more at ease than the forgery of a gentleman in front of him now. For a short moment, Enjolras let his gaze trail over the crowd again, as if he could will the hunter into existence with thought alone. So absorbed was he in his thoughts that it took several seconds for him to recollect himself enough to register Philippe -  _ the crown prince, _ he thought disdainfully - standing impatiently in front of him. 

“Enjolras.  _ Enjolras.” _

“Apologies, sire,” Enjolras stammered, returning his gaze to the prince. “You were saying?”

“I was  _ saying,” _ huffed the prince, with all the air of a highborn brat, “I will show you around the castle now, if my mother wants me indoors so desperately.”

_ Christ. _ All Enjolras wanted was a room and a nice bath, he didn’t need the full tour from a man he couldn’t stand a mere five minutes after meeting him. His mother’s chastising voice rang in his head, telling him to  _ make nice with the royal family, Enjolras, establish yourself at court _ \- he could think of nothing he wanted less, but the crowd of nobles gathered in the courtyard was already beginning to whisper amongst themselves. As much as Enjolras wanted to keep his distance from Philippe, the thought of word getting back to Paris and his parents showing up to reprimand him was a far less tasteful option.

“Of course, sire,” Enjolras said, a smile on his face but a cold, flat look in his eyes as he followed Philippe back through the crowd and towards the Palace of Versailles - now less inviting than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are much appreciated, find me on tumblr at [prouvvaire](http://prouvvaire.tumblr.com)!


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